


The Month That Mattered

by Jubalii



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Chicharron is a Hoarder, Eventual Happy Ending, Found Family, Gen, Héctor Learns the Meaning of Love, Héctor is a Good Husband- a Good Friend- a Good Cousin, Love Comes In Many Forms, One Big Happy Family, Original Character Death(s), Platonic Love is Important Y'all, Platonic Relationships, Shantytown Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-16 21:22:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16502942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jubalii/pseuds/Jubalii
Summary: Héctor doesn't belong here. He's got a family, a house, a life- and the tremors, the weakening bones, the fainting spells? Those are just accidents. He's not being Forgotten... this is a mistake. He doesn't need this damp, dreary place, this fake family of castoffs, or this stupid bungalow.He just needs to cross that dumb flower bridge before it's too late.





	The Month That Mattered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the most lawless people are the ones that create them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had originally posted this story to Tumblr, but I really wanted to go back and do some more world-building with this, and what started out as a little tweaking ended up being a full rewrite of the story. I’m really proud with how the final plot ended up being.

“Gelo, _por favor_ ….”

Héctor was no stranger to begging. Being the son of a poor clergyman, he’d never had much in life to begin with—the son of a poor, _dead_ clergyman had even less. His life had been filled with begging, bartering, even stealing when he could no longer take the pains in his distended stomach. Each piece of fruit had tasted bitter in his mouth, the curses of shopkeepers still ringing in his ears; that hadn’t stopped him from devouring it almost faster than he could taste, sucking the juice from his fingers in search of every last drop.

He’d thought that, once he’d been old enough to do men’s work, that those days would be behind him. After all, an honest man willing to earn his keep could find manual labor almost anywhere… within reason. There had been a revolution going on, after all. And yet here he was, nearly slipping from the flimsy metal chair to fall on his knees before his boss’s desk.

“Ay: look, Héctor—” Gelo began, pinching the bridge of his nose with a pained expression. His oil-smudged fingers caught the single overhead bulb with a dusty sheen, a technicolored stain hidden within black shadow. He rubbed over his forehead, ignoring the streaks he left behind; the bulb highlighted the silver wedding band on his third finger, drawing Héctor’s eyes habitually as it gleamed. He swallowed his own pain, glancing away quickly as he waited for Gelo to speak.

“I’m not gonna lie to you: I _hate_ the thought of having to replace you.” Gelo rubbed his eye sockets, wincing over the cluttered desk at where Héctor sat, wedged between the filing cabinet and the plyboard wall of the trailer. “It’s not gonna be easy at all; you’re a good hard worker, and I’ve never had a lick of trouble out of you. You’ve never missed a day, always on time, you get on great with the other guys….”

Héctor’s heart fluttered, something like hope building at the base of his throat. Even if Gelo couldn’t keep him here, even if he had to lose this job and go out again—if Gelo was willing to write him a positive reference, and just avoid mentioning the… _accident_ entirely, then… then maybe—

“But I got a company to think about, man.” His heart sunk—no, _slammed_ —into his pelvis.

“Gelo it was just a little slip up! A fluke!” Héctor swallowed frantically, wishing he still had a tongue to lick his lips with. “I don’t even know what happened; I… I slipped!”

“Héctor—”

“Yeah, I slipped! You know how _clumsy_ I am, you can give me a write up and I’ll make sure it’ll never happen again, I can….” He fell silent at the sight of Gelo’s stoic frown, words jamming against the lump growing behind his breastbone.

That, all of that—that was a lie. He _still_ didn’t have a clear idea of what had happened. He’d been fine one moment, laughing it up with Carlos and Gabriel on top of the scaffolding while they took a quick break; the next thing he knew he was on the ground—bones scattered, skull pointed to the sky—and no memory of how he got there. The men, his friends, had surrounded him in a tight ring, bringing his bones with them and staring down with concern. Their faces had been stretched into comical masks, children’s playthings shadowed from above: horror, disdain.

Pity.

“Twenty-three men all saw the same thing, _amigo._ That’s not a fluke, that’s a fact.” Gelo made a sympathetic sound in the back of his throat. “It… it happens to all of us eventually, Héctor. This is just your time, I guess.” It took Héctor a moment to realize that he was trembling, knees knocking together as his body flooded with fear and anger. _My time? My time!? That’s easy for **you** to say, not been in the city a full six months you piece of—_

He stopped his train of thought with a small shake, clenching his jaw to keep the anger inside. Gelo might have been fresh off the marigold bridge, but while Héctor sat in the rickety mobile home that served as his office, he was still the boss. Losing his temper—especially right now, when he was banking on Gelo’s mercy—wouldn’t be the wisest thing to do.

“Those guys?” He laughed a little too loudly, wracking his brain for some kind of joke, something to ease the nauseous tension rolling in his stomach. “Why, they couldn’t see a stud if it were two feet in front of their—”

“Héctor.” The sound of his name, spoken in such a rough, resigned tone, was enough to make him fall silent. He was used to Gelo’s gruff censure, the snappy bite in his commands, but this was something worse. He watched as his boss continued to scrub the pink and purple designs on his forehead with his palms, greasing them all the way up to the roots of his eternally-graying hair.

“I can do it,” he promised, his voice dropping to a whispered plea. “I can work.”

“If it were up to me, we wouldn’t even be sitting here—not yet. But it’s not.” Gelo threw up his hands, sighing heavily. “Laws are laws, Héctor: I’m bound to follow them, even the ones that I don’t particularly care for. If one of those damn bureaucrats found out that I openly employ… well, if they found out about certain liabilities, they’d fine me for every cent I got. I don’t have the cash or the connections to fight something that big.”

“Gelo.” Héctor scooted forward, hips barely hanging onto the chair as he leaned his hands on his knees; it was all he could do to keep from clasping them. “Listen—”

“ _You_ listen, man! There are legal implications against employing a… a….” He paused, fighting with the name hanging on the edge of his tongue. Maybe he was still a newbie, but it didn’t take long to figure out that the newer generations treated it like a slur, something disgusting and filthy that didn’t belong even in the coarsest workplace.

“ _El ovidado_.” The term was bitter, a potent poison that hung in the air between them like a miasma; still, he couldn’t help but take a dark pleasure at the way Gelo flinched from it, sockets crinkling. A stone formed in his stomach, a pearl built of despair and helplessness. It sat there, weighing him down until he felt as though he might drown with it, lost at the bottom of a pool with no hope of reaching the top.

Forty-eight years… forty-eight years of odd jobs, of scraping enough money to get by each month. Years of counting coins, living off the bare minimum just to keep the cheap apartment he’d been able to find, to keep the rent under control, to keep the hope that his family had just—misunderstood, somehow. It _had_ to be a misunderstanding, maybe they just didn’t have a photo of him, maybe something had happened to it, maybe… maybe….

He’d finally found a man who believed in old values, in giving honest men like him a chance to prove their worth in the workplace. He’d finally been able to pay off some of his debts, friends who’d helped him when he was down on his luck, old bills that had followed him like a bad taste in his mouth. He’d started to plan for the day when he could _save_ some money, to be able to by a better apartment, even a house, to start making it the home Imelda deserved for when she joined him—

And now this. He’d been—was being—forgotten. Discarded, left behind like old trash. It had to be a mistake, it just _had_ to be. Why wouldn’t they remember him? He was the love of her life, he was their _hermano_ , his _amigo_ , he was Papá…. _It just has to be some kind of mistake. She wouldn’t forget me, she loves me, she knows I was coming back, surely—surely she knows that much. Surely she wouldn’t…._  

“Héctor?” The sound pulled him out of his introspection just enough to remember where he was, his current predicament. Gelo shifted uncomfortably in his own chair, reaching for the desk drawer. “Maybe it’s time for you to—” _No, not yet!_

“Gelo: if you fire me for this, I’m never going to be able to get another job!” Héctor cringed away from the clear desperation in his own voice, but that didn’t stop the words from pouring, unbidden, from his mouth clumsily. “You know that. I know that. Every single man out there knows that. _Please_ , Gelo, I’m begging you. _Don’t—”_ He ran out of breath, choking at the emotion written across his boss’s face. Pity. He was being looked on as something pitiful.

He wanted to throw up.

“Too many people saw, Héctor.” Gelo’s voice thinned, dropping to a low mumble. “If I let you slide, someone’s bound to say something, and then who’s in the pot? I can’t lose my building license, not now. I got… I got people to think about beyond myself.”

Héctor knew this, he didn’t need to be told. Gelo clearly was married, and probably had family—if not in this world, in the Land of the Living. And there were men out there who relied on him to keep the company afloat, for their own families. That knowledge didn’t stop the words from slicing into him with merciless pain, a hot knife twisting slowly into the place where his heart used to be.

“ _Lo siento_.” He knew that Gelo meant it, that it wasn’t said only to be polite. He was sorry, but sorry didn’t change a single thing. His moral principles didn’t give him protection from the law, and the law stated that companies were duty-bound to deny employment to the Forgotten. It was always included in the new hire pamphlets, fine print that he never paid much attention to before, since it had never applied to him: _Companies must refuse employment to anyone proven to be unfit for daily labor due to injury, mental health, or other unrelated causes._

 _Los Olvidados_ , according to the courts, were unrelated causes. No one would hire someone who couldn’t be trusted to stay on his feet; job security meant nothing when you were en route to collapse into a pile of dust. He’d heard rumors of charities, of nonprofits that helped provide necessities to the Forgotten, but he’d never heard of a single one being able to hold a job after the first signs were visible to the public. They all just… _vanished_ , either out of public eye or, if there was no one to care for them, down to the slums at the water’s edge.

“What am I supposed to do?” he asked, not expecting an answer. They were empty words, born of his growing uneasiness. He didn’t want to think about Shantytown, he wasn’t ready; they said it was a lawless den, full of people so terrible that no one _wanted_ to remember them. He didn’t belong down there with the murderers and rapists, the gang leaders and thugs and God-knew what else. He would be eaten alive within ten minutes, reduced to someone’s little… toy, or worse.

Gelo gazed at him, _through_ him, pondering something before turning to the satchel on the end of his desk. Digging through it, he fished around with one arm before pulling a small package from its depths, wrapped neatly in a piece of newsprint. He handed the package over the desk; Héctor noticed how he took care to keep their fingers from brushing at it exchanged hands. He averted his eyes, unwilling for Gelo to see how even that small gesture had affected him.

Unfolding the stiff newspaper, he found a pair of suspenders, nearly brand new. Confusion wrinkled his browbone, mouth tightening as he lifted them from the paper and watched the buckles gleam in the light. Gelo shrugged, tapping the papers on his desk into neat order.

“I was going to take them to the open market near my house after work, trade them in for something else. But….” He didn’t finish the sentence, fidgeting in the chair. He didn’t have to; Héctor knew how it ended, what he meant to say. _But you need them more._ Maybe Gelo thought he was doing him some kind of selfless service, a charity act to someone less fortunate. Maybe that was all he could think of to do.

Maybe he should have felt grateful. But gratitude didn’t leave a metallic taste in his mouth, as if someone had punched him right in the jaw. His own fist closed slowly around the fabric-covered elastic, metal clasps clinking lightly against each other as he let them drop to the creased newsprint.

“I hope they can help you, somehow. Or you can wear them, too.” Gelo tried to smile, mouth wobbling at the corners. “It’s really been a pleasure working with you, Héctor; you have no idea how sad I am to see you go.”

“Yes.” What else could he say?

“I wish… I wish it wasn’t like this.”

“Yes.” He stood automatically, the package clutched to his ribcage the same way Coco used to clutch her little doll. His mind was awhirl, tumbling over itself and crashing against the inside of his skull; it made his head ache. _Fired._ It was over. No one was ever going to hire him after this.

“We’ll send your last check in the mail.”

“Yes… okay,” he mumbled, just for something else to say, something that didn’t make him sound like a skipping record. Courtesy was the last thing on his mind right now, not when the rug had been swept from beneath his stumbling feet. He nodded, unable to even look at Gelo as the man said something else, something he didn’t even hear. He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry, he wanted… he wanted to go home.

He looked up to see the sun, the half-built office building, the wooden frame that served as stairs to get into the trailer. The door closed behind him, bumping him down the steps, and he nearly sprawled on the ground. His bones felt week, but it wasn’t his condition: it was fear. How he was supposed to know where to go, what to do? Everyone else who’d been in the same situation always just sort of… vanished. He was literally alone.

He heard the lock click behind him, and started to walk.

* * *

 

_I don’t belong here._

Héctor peered through the thin fog at the broad, sloping arch of a ruined bridge; it formed a sort of gate, separating the flat pyramid from the creaking docks that seemed to wind into the distance, at least as far as he could see. He craned his neck towards the graffiti on the faded, slimy stone, mouth agape as he read the crude lettering: _Los Olvidados._ Painted skeletons fell from the heavens, their wings—orange cempasúchil petals—crumbling in midair and arms reaching in vain for whatever lay above. Beyond the arch, he could see the faint outline of crude houses rising from the mist.

He shuddered, gulping as he clutched the handle of his lone vailse. He’d managed to sell most of his belongings, not that he had many to start with; along with his final pay from Gelo’s construction company, it had been enough to settle what little he owed to friends. His outstanding debt could just continue to accumulate, for all he cared now; he doubted the police would waste their time chasing down a Forgotten man.

Behind him was the flat stone of the ancient pyramids, ahead of him was the docks and who knew what sort of unsavory characters; to either side was flat, black water, rippling as it lapped against the eroded stone walkway. To go back was useless; even if he had some kind of distant family still living in the city, there was no way to get in touch with them outside of the Dept. of Family Reunions. They wouldn’t want the burden of some long-lost _primo_ showing up on their doorstep, anyway. 

Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself and took his first step.

The docks creaked beneath his feet, swaying in rhythm with the water. He stumbled, knees knocking as he tried to get his sea legs as quickly as possible; he’d never lived near the water, and the only time he’d been on a boat he’d spent most of it throwing up over the side. Ernesto had scolded him for a solid hour for dirtying his mariachi suit, complaining about their ‘image’ over the sound of his dry heaves. He pushed the memory from his mind, the thought alone of that terrible day making him doubly queasy.

To his amazement, his mind began to pick out patterns in the layout of the shanties as he walked down the narrow strip of boards. From the city above, Shantytown looked like a sprawling mess: dark, dismal, slapdash. The reality couldn’t be more different, from the look of things; there were clear streets, separated by low, empty platforms that seemed to serve as plazas. Some shanties wound their way up the piers of the ancient bridges, an upper set of docks strung between them like train tracks across a gorge.

The early morning light couldn’t cut through the fog, but lanterns hung at regular intervals across the docks helped to light the way. Flames flickered from ash-filled drums, firelight streaming through the cracks where uneven driftwood doors didn’t fit perfectly into the frame. The windows were gaping holes, but curtains were hung across most of them to keep out prying eyes. There was ample light to see by, but it was such a stark difference from the glittering world far above; the City of the Dead seemed like an aurora from here, something beautiful but intangible.

 _Thump, thump, thump._ Héctor looked around, eyes widening as a strange, wooden sound echoed in the empty streets around him. He couldn’t see anyone— _alebrije_ or human—that would make that sort of cluttering clomp. Swallowing thickly, he edged towards the nearest shanty on shuffling, uncertain feet, trying in vain to decide which direction the sound was coming from. If he screamed for help here, would it matter? If they were as bad as the rumors said, no one would bother checking on some unknown voice.

“Morning!” Héctor jumped, nearly flailing right off the dock and into the chilly water as his heart leapt in his chest. Something hard and pointy caught the collar of his purple button-up, yanking him back to the center of the dock in one fell swoop. “Woah there, boy!” the scratchy voice chuckled. “You’re bound to take a swim at this rate!”

Héctor spun on his heel to see a middle-aged man with a kindly face smiling at him, balancing steadily on his single right leg. His bones were a deep, dusty yellow, the intricate swirls around his eye sockets colorless; it was as though someone had simply forgotten to paint his squashed skull. He held the broken lower half of an oar, which seemed to be both a crutch and an extension of his arm. Héctor rubbed the back of his neck, where he could feel a new fray in his collar; a few purple threads clung to the oar’s ragged handle.

“I… oh.” He didn’t know how to respond to that, or even if he should. Would _thanks_ be too much? _You startled me_ sounded too defensive, too accusing. The man didn’t seem to notice, looking him over with a keen eye before pointing the oar at his suitcase. _Here it comes_ , Héctor thought with a sinking heart; surely this guy wanted some kind of reward for saving his sorry hide from an early morning dip.

“You’re gonna lose that if you’re not careful, son.” Héctor glanced down at the valise, the leather faded and cracked with age. Was he trying to warn him against robbers? Or was it a thinly-veiled threat? “That handle’s awful loose, and anything that hits the water doesn’t come up again quite so easy. Better get it patched up, if you aim to carry it around.”

“Oh. Right.” Despite the friendly advice, he couldn’t help but press the valise closer to his side warily. Its contents were all he had left in the world, save for the clothes on his back. His nearly half-century in the Land of the Dead really hadn’t been kind to him, the more he thought about it. It made it all the more heart-wrenching to think about _some people_ in their fancy art-deco mansions, people who didn’t take visits without an appointment, people who hadn’t bothered even trying to find old _amigos_ ….  

 “You new, son?” The man was still talking, resting lightly on his oar. Those gray eyes slid over his form once more, pausing on the neatly cuffed trousers, the thinly soled shoes, the rumpled creases in his purple shirt. “I don’t think I’ve seen your face around here before.” He twisted his head, neckbones cracking in a series disjointed ripples.

“I—well, _sí_ …. although—” _I really don’t belong here… can’t you see that? Can’t **anyone** see that? _He hesitated, unsure of how to voice the thought, or even how to ask for directions. He had no idea where he was going; he hadn’t planned for what would happen once he actually reached Shantytown. A part of him had kind of hoped that he, too, would somehow just cease to exist once he passed the gate.

Who was in charge of a place like this? He opened his mouth, ready to ask, and then closed it as doubt filled his mind. One kind soul didn’t mean the whole neighborhood would be nice; for he knew, this guy would try to pilfer his leg the minute his back was turned. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know who was top dog in a place like this. Maybe there was an agency, somewhere? A committee, even?

“I’m not sure… where I…. What I mean is—” The man nodded knowingly, cutting him off with a raised hand.

“The person you need is Tía Marisol.” He twirled the oar expertly, tucking the broad side beneath his arm to form a makeshift crutch. “I have to go near her house on my way home; if you come along, I’ll show you the way.” Without waiting for an answer, he began to thump his way down the docks with surprising dexterity.

“Oh… oh!” Héctor adjusted his grip on the valise, hurrying after him as the rising sun began to dispel some of the mist surrounding the shanties. The tin porch roofs were illuminated in blinding rays, the waters lightening to a pinkish-orange along with the star-studded sky.  

They hurried along the docks, the man calling out greetings to others as they began to emerge from the shanties into the morning air. Héctor followed quickly, trying to keep up while still keeping a hold on his belongings _and_ remember the path back to the gate. So far he hadn’t seen any other entrances to Shantytown, and if he needed to make a quick escape he’d either have to run… or swim.

“Here we are,” he announced after a moment, pointing towards a fairly large shanty that seemed to be—for lack of a better term—leaning against the stone pier it was built beside. Beneath a rather spacious front porch, complete with an overhang, an elderly skeleton was sitting propped against the clapboard wall. “Morning!” The man waved his oar at the skeleton, who raised a dusty glass in greeting.

“Fine day, ain’t it?” he replied, beaming as they approached. His two remaining teeth wobbled in the void of his mouth, palsied hands trembling as they steadied the glass. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is….” The man turned, staring expectantly.

“Héctor, it’s Héctor,” he answered hurriedly, squaring his shoulders as he offered a polite bow. He’d been raised—if his limited upbringing could indeed be called raising—to show respect to elders; even if the old man was an ancient cutthroat, that didn’t call for immediate rudeness. _Then again_ , he thought quietly, looking at the old geezer, _he doesn’t look like he can cut meat, much less a throat._ “Héctor Rivera,” he added, an afterthought.

“This is Héctor—he’s new.” The man lowered his head, imparting something extra with his gaze instead of spoken words. The old man continued to smile, the expression softening into something gentler, more personal.

“Well, well, well! Welcome, _primo_!”

 _Primo_? Héctor stared openly, wondering for a brief moment if he actually knew this old man. He was unable to place the weathered skull to any memory of his former friends, living or dead. He’d never known any family to speak of, either; before he married, Ernesto had been the closest thing to family he’d had. Was this one of Imelda’s relations, maybe? He flicked quickly through the memories of his wife’s family, the distant cousins and nieces and nephews; pulling a blank, he shook his head with a puzzled frown.

“ _Perdóname_ , _señor_ : but, I don’t—” He nervously gripped Gelo’s suspenders with his free hand, fingering the ribbed pattern down to where it met his trousers; he’d decided to keep them, even if they were nothing more than charity disguised as a parting gift. If things got bad, he was fairly sure he could barter them down here for something, maybe exchange them for shelter or a hot meal. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

“Hmm?” Before the man could reply, the door creaked open; an equally elderly woman teetered onto the porch, holding a chipped plate slopped with something that looked like chilaquiles. He leaned up to kiss her cheek when she handed him the plate, love glowing in the creased corners of his cheekbones. _His wife,_ Héctor realized, with a sharp pang of loneliness. “ _Mi amor_ , we’ve got guests: Cousin Javi and Cousin Héctor.”

“My goodness.” The woman bent out of her stooped, hunchbacked position and turned to look at them fully, resting her hand on the splintered wooden railing around the porch. Héctor felt his stomach lurch; she was missing an eyeball, the socket just as chipped as the dish she’d served breakfast on. “Well, what are you waiting for? Come up here and have some breakfast, _mijos_.”

“Sorry, but the boys will be waiting for me,” the man—Javi—excused himself. “But today’s Héctor’s first day here; you’ll take good care of him, won’t you?”

“I see.” She looked at the suitcase, and he noticed with a hint of revulsion that her remaining eye was slow; it swiveled down to his hand a full heartbeat past her initial head-tilt. “Well, come on up and let Tía Marisol get a good look at you, sweetheart.” She waved at an oblong length of sheet metal, nailed crookedly between the dock and the porch. “Nothing to start a new life off like a good, hot meal.”

“I—I don’t—”

“Don’t be shy, _mijo_! I have more than enough to go around, and you’re hungry.” She nodded firmly, turning back towards the doorway. “Javi, you might as well stick around too.”

“I really can’t, Tía; I’ve been away long enough. The boys are probably getting worried about me.” He took up his oar, saluting the man before turning to Héctor. “I’m Javier, by the way: I guess you can tell they just call me Javi. I live down by the staircase, that way.” He pointed to where, in the far distance, something that looked more like a ladder than a staircase rose to the upper walkway.

“Oh. Wait, I mean: _mucho gusto_.” Héctor stuck out his hand for Javi to shake. “And thanks, for earlier.”

“Don’t mention it.” As suspicious as he’d been of him earlier, Héctor really didn’t want to be left alone with another set of new people. Part of him wanted to beg for Javi to take him home, to hope that there was some free space, that the boys—whoever they were—would be willing to put up with him until he could find someplace better.

“I, um… Javier—Javi—”

“You’ll be fine,” Javi assured him in a lower voice; the man on the porch suddenly seemed interested in his breakfast, looking pointedly away from them. Héctor gulped, wondering if the panic he felt was showing in his eyes. “Tía Marisol will take good care of you; she helped me when I first came. She and her husband have been here longer than anyone else.”

“O-okay.” He nodded, sounding a lot braver than he really felt. “ _Gracias_ , Javi.”

“No problem, really. And if you do need anything, don’t hesitate to come pay a visit. Or you can just say hello; I’m sure the boys would love to meet you.” He clapped a hand to his shoulder, squeezing the bone before turning with a wave. “See you around Tío, Cousin Héctor!” There was that _cousin_ again, almost as if they were claiming him for something… he suppressed a shiver, finding that he didn’t like the thought of it at all.

“Well, _primo_ : you heard her.” The elderly skeleton was patting an empty barrel next to him, balancing the plate on one shaking knee. “Come up and make yourself at home. Where you from?”

“Santa Cecelia, originally.” He edged his way up the sheet metal, gasping when it buckled in the middle and leaping the rest of the way; he landed hard on the porch, which swayed precariously before settling back against the pier. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know it would do that.”

“You’ll get used to it,” the old man assured him, patting the barrel again. He sat down gingerly, afraid to lean against the wall lest he actually break something. Knowing his luck, his first day in Shantytown would be spent fixing some mess he accidentally made. “Give yourself a week and you’ll be running up and down these docks like you were born here.”

“Here we are, hot and ready to eat!” A chair burst through the door, Tía Marisol pushing it along the porch with her hip while balancing another plate in her free hand. She sat squarely on the chair, the legs bending beneath her frame, and handed the steaming food over to him before wiping her hands on her apron. “Now eat up, _mijo_ : there’s plenty where that came from. Don’t be afraid to ask for seconds!”

“I’m… thank you, but I—”

“Eat,” the old man agreed, his fork clinking against the plate as he methodically grinded his food before scooping it into his toothless mouth. “It’ll settle your stomach, if nothing else. You’re shaking like a leaf.” It was true; now that he’d sat down, his limbs trembled like a newborn fawn’s.

“There’s no need to be nervous.” Tía Marisol smiled, hands bunched in the folds of her apron as she rocked absently on the seat. “I know they talk, up there, but it’s just _chisme_. No one here is going to hurt you; those kinds of people never make it quite this far.” She leaned forward, glancing around the porch’s roof to look up at the city. He wanted to ask what she meant, but despite his curiosity he kept silent. He didn’t really want to know, not yet.  

“Yes… you’ll find us a bit boring, I’m afraid, after the hustle and bustle up there.” She said _up there_ as though it were a foreign land: something not distasteful, but not worthy of notice. “But you’ll get used to it,” she promised, smoothing the apron across her lap with smile. “Just give it time, _mijo_.”

Her voice held an immeasurable warmth, a kindness the likes of which he hadn’t heard in decades—at least not directed at himself. _She was someone’s mother, once._ The thought made his chest constrict, something like tears burning hot behind his eyes. He didn’t like the thought of someone, a matronly figure like her, being left to a place like this. Even if she was being forgotten, she should have been at home with her family, well cared for and surrounded by those she loved.

He’d spent so long with his head down, shoulders hunched, trying to make himself invisible. It was the only way to avoid being spat at by strangers, especially once his bones lost their white gleam and slowly faded: first to a discolored cream, and now to a dusky flaxen. He’d nearly forgotten what it was like to be addressed as a true equal, to be treated as someone worthy of notice and love.  

“What happened to your arm?” the old man asked, pointing with his fork to the thin fracture on his right ulna. “Looks like you did quite the number on it,” he added, shoveling another makeshift pile of mashed food into his mouth with a concerned frown.

“Let me take a look.” Tía Marisol rose, obscuring his view of the docks as she stood in front of him and reached for his arm. “Oh dear,” she clucked softly, her tender fingers rubbing the break as if she could buff it out by touch alone. “Let’s get some tape on this before it gets any worse. I think I still have some in the back, hang on.” Again she vanished into the house, moving with the slow, steady rush that only women who enjoyed keeping busy could master.  

“You get into a scrape?” the man asked, unmollified.

“I hurt it at work,” he explained slowly, voice croaking with nerves. He felt a slight panic whenever he thought about the bone. They looked solid—they _were_ solid, his mind corrected firmly—but for some reason…. “It’s not healing. It’s been that way for nearly two weeks now, it’s just—I don’t know,” he said helplessly, finally putting the untouched plate of food on the ground beside his valise.

“Don’t know what?” Tía Marisol asked, returning with a roll of gray duct tape in her hands. She picked up his arm again, looking carefully at the break in full sunlight. Compared to his bones, her fingers were frail, her palms dotted with porous holes; she looked as though, with the slightest pressure, her limbs could break off and crumble. _Crumble to dust_ …. He managed to squash the shiver building at the base of his spine, not wanting to seem rude when she was trying so hard to help.

“Why it’s not healing the way it should. I’ve never had this happen before, I’ve always been fine after—I mean, it should have already healed up by now, it’s been nearly two weeks,” he repeated. The couple listened patiently, their faces empathetic.

“Shh,” Tía Marisol soothed. “We know, we know. That’s just the way it is now. Nothing to do but get used to it.”

“You will,” her husband vowed. “Won’t take you long at all. Never does.” The finality of it had him puling away from the comforting touch of her hand, from their geniality. If they noticed, neither of them commented on it; Tía Marisol reached for his arm again, the old man watching as he rested the chipped plate in the gap of his pelvis.

“One of the first things you should do is get your hands on some o’ that,” he advised helpfully, flicking his fork at the duct tape. “Holds bones together much better than that cheap medical stuff the Charity gives out… though you’ll want to take that too.”

“ _Algo es mejor que nada_ ,” Tía Marisol agreed cheerfully. “Speaking of which… you’ll be needing a place to stay, young man.” She skillfully wrapped the tape around his ulna, cutting it with a pair of sewing scissors and sealing the ends carefully, so that there were no gaps or bubbles. Nodding once at her work, she stared thoughtfully at him, fingers drumming the spool of tape. The gaping hole where her eye should have been was still startling, but Héctor found that so long as he didn’t look directly at it, he could pretend she was winking.

“¡ _Sí_!” He jumped on the idea, not wanting to encroach on their hospitality. The sooner he could get a place of his own, the sooner he could hole up and try to forget about where he was for a while. If he could just figure out some way to get his hands on his record, to make sure that ‘O’ didn’t exist… no that was too hard. He’d have to lie, to make up a new identity, to hide his condition somehow. But how could he, when he hadn’t even noticed what was happening before he fell from the scaffolding? The faintness had come without warning. 

“Um… thank you, Doña. For the tape, and—” He handed back the uneaten food. “I appreciate it, but if you can just point me in the direction of the hotel, or… a check-in station, something? Does the Department of Family Reunions have a kiosk? A telephone number?”  Another sweet, pitiable smile from the two of them; he could almost hear their thoughts. _Pobrecito._

“That’s not how it works around here.” The old man fingered the bent, rust tongs of his fork, tapping them against his lower mandible with a soft _ting_.

“No hotels,” Tía Marisol agreed. “No check-in stations.”

“No Department, either.” He shrugged. “They don’t like to think about us too much, up there. Not unless someone actually bothers to ask, anyway.” He caught sight of something in Héctor’s face and shook his head. “Doesn’t happen often, _primo_. Don’t get your hopes up.”

 “But then—where do I—” He looked around at the twisted buildings looming over him, their jagged grinning doorways mocking him where they were only eerie before. The sprawling order, the sense of belonging, meant nothing to an outsider like him. “ _How_ do I—”

“We’re all family here,” the old man explained in a brisk voice. “You’re family now, too. You need anything, you just ask someone. That’s how it works around here.”

“Everyone pitches in and works together. No one has much of anything, but no one goes without, either. That’s the Shantytown way.” Tía Marisol smiled at her husband. “My Lencho is right; we’re all family. You’re not alone anymore, _mijo_.” _I wasn’t alone before!_ he wanted to shout, although that was far from the truth. Even if he had a family, that family was in the Land of the Living… not here.

“I—I’m not—I don’t plan on staying here for long,” Héctor pointed out, picking up his valise. He didn’t mean to be rude, but he wasn’t family. He didn’t belong here, not yet. These people weren’t like him; he was still viable, still able to work. _Tomorrow I’ll go back to the city. I’ll find… something. I’ll go to all the shops, I’ll see who’s hiring. I can still make a living. I can still provide for my **real** family. _

“Who does?” Tío Lencho laughed, shrugging. “You still need someplace to stay, though. Can’t have a cousin going around without a roof over his head, that won’t do.”

“What you need to do,” Tía Marisol said matter-of-factly, “is go to Chicharrón’s place. He’s got a vacancy.”

“Marisol, look at him,” Tío Lencho protested. “You’re going to kill the poor boy; he won’t last five minute with Chicharrón. You know how he’s been since—”

“Chicharrón,” Tía Marisol continued, speaking over her husband until he fell silent,” lives at the end of the docks. If you go straight south from here, past Cousin Javi’s place, and turn left when you reach the wide platform, you’ll see a little group of houses. One has a minivan: that’s Chicharrón.”

“He’s not going to let him in,” Tío Lencho sang, making a long face before blowing out his breath in a sputtering sigh. “He’ll have better luck trying to sprout wings and fly.”

“Don’t discourage the boy,” Tía Marisol tsked. “You’ll be fine. Just ask for Abril. She knows how to talk to Chicharrón; she’ll get you on his good side. Besides,” she continued, winking conspiratorially, “everyone knows old Cousin Chich’s bark is worse than his bite. He’s about as dangerous as a toothless _sabueso_.”

“If you talk to Abril, you’ll probably have a chance,” Tío Lencho agreed, settling against the wall of the house once more. “She won’t turn you away.”

“Abril?”

“Sweet girl, young—close to your age. Red kerchief, loud mouth. You couldn’t miss her.” Tía Marisol patted his back, rubbing his ribcage comfortingly. “You go to her, and you’ll have a place to stay. It’s not so bad down here, _mijo_. You just have to get settled in, that’s all.” _She’s not so bad,_ Héctor mused, _even if she is missing her eye._ The thought startled him; he was already getting too used to the way they looked.

_This is bad._

“Oh!” Tío Lencho waved after him as he stepped off the sheet metal and onto the dock, stumbling once before righting himself and shifting his weight to accompany the valise. He turned, squinting back at the two skeletons in the shadow of the porch. “We nearly forgot to say!” He took his wife’s hand, the two of them waving cheerily at him as if they’d known him all their lives.

“Welcome to the family, Héctor!”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was originally based off a post made by im-fairly-witty on Tumblr, which you can find here: https://im-fairly-whitty.tumblr.com/post/172802838439/its-not-really-related-if-what-has-been-going-on
> 
> It’s interesting to see how my own views on this have changed from April to November. While I originally set out to write this as a potential “Héctor has a romance” story, when I worked on the notes for the rewrite I kept feeling the characters pulling me in an entirely different direction. As if they were saying “you’re not doing the story we want, you’re doing the story you want.”. Needless to say, I quickly apologized and went on to correct my errors. This isn’t so much a romance anymore (besides the obvious Héctor/Imelda); instead, it’s a passion project about love, about how it comes in so many different shades, and how if we try to limit ourselves only to the kind of love that we understand, we can miss out on so many wonderful connections. 
> 
> This isn't a story about romance. This is a story about platonic love, and how it can touch a heart.


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